Wolfenstein: What You Can Do For Your Country
by LittleHummus
Summary: Who doesn't love John Fitzgerald Kennedy: an American veteran, president, patriot, and hero? A question I constantly asked myself during my playthrough of The New Order and The New Colossus is, "I wonder what *historical figure* is doing in this timeline?" So I started this, the story of JFK in the Wolfenstein alternate history. Rated M for depictions of violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

**I**

1943.

It's late.

The moon casts the water around us in a milk white light.

I'm back to steering our PT. Lieutenant Kennedy they call me. A nighttime patrol; we travel with the blare of the engine in our ears, like a roaring lion on the prowl.

It happened so fast. In the distance I see a disturbance in the horizon. It's a Japanese destroyer. We attempt an attack but we're hit by something abruptly. A destroyer, one of ours though.

Pain shoots from my back as I'm flung from our PT. I hear the engine explode seconds after I'm plunged beneath the surface. I look about my surroundings. I see a silhouette sinking, I think it's Kirkskey. I try to reach out to him but I can't. It's like I can't feel anything; I'm numb. I see the moonlight fade away as I sink, like some force wants me to lie with Kirkskey on the ocean floor.

A thought makes itself apparent in my head. First it's a cough, then it's a riot. Louder than the engine's boom. _Let him go, John. It's time to get back up again. Go and lead your crew._

Feeling finds its way back into my limbs. I curl my fingers and then move my arms. I look up to the surface and reach for the light. I begin raging. Raging against the dying of the light.

* * *

I hear a knock at the door

I wake up in my bed; a pool of sweat surrounds me.

It's 1947. December the 25'th, Christmas actually. No gifts to be found anywhere in my Boston apartment. I wonder if any gifts are shared at all today. America lost its way yesterday. We surrendered to the Nazis, the greatest enemy we've ever known. They dropped a damned atom bomb on Manhattan five days ago, obliterating everything from Lady Liberty to East Bronx.

A picture painted itself in my mind: the head of the Statue of Liberty, eroding away at the bottom of the bay. A cut marked below its eye like a tear. I suppose when you cut the head off of Lady Liberty herself, the rest of the body cannot go on.

I hear another knock at the door. Faster this time; louder.

I sit up from my ocean of sweat, feeling sticky and in need of a bath. Pain creeps its way up my back again, like an old friend reminding me of what I can and can't do. I grit my teeth and ignore it. I stumble across my flat and answer the door, not making any effort to hide my body covered in nothing but a stained, white tank top and USA boxers. It's a neighbor of mine, first floor I believe. The name Willie comes to my mind. He frantically steps around in his place, like a man who seriously needed to find a bathroom. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead as well. I stood there for a moment, furrowing my brow in confusion.

"You wanna use my bathroom or something, pal?" I asked, resting an arm on the doorway.

"Nazis downstairs. They're looking for you."

My demeanor changes immediately. I knew something like this would happen but I didn't think it so soon. Stupid. I'm so stupid.

"Fuck me!" I shout, turning around and running to my bedroom. From my dresser I pull a .45 caliber pistol and a plain white T, one of the ones with a shirt pocket. I slide my bottom dresser open for some pants but I hear Willie shout from outside my front door.

"Contact!" He exclaims before slamming my door.

I ditch the dresser, pull over my t shirt, and go for my field jacket. On the other side of my thin apartment walls I can hear the confrontation of Willie and two officers. Two Nazis.

"He's not home," Willie says calmly in German. "I already checked."

"And why would you do that?" An officer with voice like gravel asks.

At this moment I realize how loud I was being. As quietly as I could with my shaking hands, I checked the magazine of my pistol. Eight rounds, fully loaded.

"I swore I heard something in there." The other officer says.

"Then you confirm my beliefs, step aside civilian."

"Oh no sir!" Willie shouts. "The other residents and I are relieving Mr. Kennedy of his belongings. We planned to burn all of his American memorabilia. Might I warn you, there is a lot in there from what I've seen."

I return to my bottom dresser drawer and slide on some socks. Pants are too loud.

"Step aside, civilian! I am only going to tell you once."

"I'm telling you!" Willie exclaims, panicked. "He's not-"

And then I hear a series of scuffles from the hall. Then a cracking noise, then a scream. I can't tell who it's from.

I slip into my boots at lightning speed fueled by adrenaline. The front door opens and I bolt, kicking out my glass window and sliding out onto the fire escape. A metallic storm erupts from under my boots as I scurry down the staircase, clad in everything but my pants. The moon probably shined brightly upon my stars n' stripes covered ass. A shout comes from above me and echoes off the alley walls.

"He is escaping!" Shouts the Nazi with the gravelly voice. "Alert the reinforcements!"

 _Guess Willie ol' pal didn't make it._

I wondered why a complete stranger would risk his life for someone he barely even knew. I then wondered what all he knew of me. Did he know I was a vet? Did he know of my family's political ties? Perhaps he believed in me as a true patriot, a sign of hope in this uncertain time. The last one is the one I chose to believe.

 _Thanks Willie. With all my heart, thank you. A true patriot. A true American._

At this point I vault over the metal railing and into a garbage bin. My back makes me jerk my head back in pure agony and look to the moon. I'm reminded by my dream. Sinking in the ocean, unable to move, to save myself. But then I'm reminded of the light of the moon beneath the surface and how I raged. Raged against the dying of the light. On any other night I would be appalled by the scent of the bin, but not tonight. Tonight, all I smell is danger and salt water on the Pacific. I pull myself from the garbage and dash down the alleyway with German shouts at my back.

 _Rage, John,_ I thought.

 _Rage against the dying of the light_


	2. Chapter 2

**A quick author's note -** Thanks to everybody who took the time to read the first chapter! Though there are few of you, your reviews and follows motivate me to produce more on Mr. Kennedy's story. Expect to see some more historical and interesting characters in future chapters. Chapter 3 should be a nice and long, but for now I present to you Episode Two of What You Can Do For Your Country. Enjoy!

* * *

 **II**

My head erupts through the surface accompanied by deep heaves. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and look about my surroundings. _Am I the only one left?_

In the distance I hear the destroyers. The gunfire , though from so far away, still hammers in my ears, and the hammering soon fades to white noise. Ringing is all I hear. It's only interrupted when I hear commotion a couple yards to the left of me. I turn to face it.

"Lieutenant? That you?" A crewmate calls.

"Yeah! Barney?"

"Yeah."

Then I hear more commotion. This time a few yards behind me.

"Who is it!?" I call.

The crewmate releases a series of air-deprived heaves and I hesitate to re ask until they finish.

"It's Albert! Lieutenant!?"

"Aye!"

The process repeats till four names are uncalled. I kept track of the names Barney, Albert, Maguire, Zinser, Mauer, Starkey, Johnston, and Thom, and Bucky.

"Anybody seen Marney, Peterson, or McMahon?" I question.

A collective _no_ passes around my crewmates.

"What about Kirkskey? He here?" Starkey asks.

I look back up at the moon and stars. The autumnal breeze blows across my face, drying beads of saltwater but at the cost of a chill trickling down my spine.

"No," I eventually say. "He ain't here."

As I say it, I look passed Barney's silhouette and at the wreckage of PT 109. Two dark figures bobbed in a repeating pattern. I shove my right arm in front of me and perform a series of butterfly strokes in their direction. I feel a burning sensation on my arms as I reach Peterson and McMahon. Plausibly the leaking fuel.

"Oh God Lieutenant, it's good to see you." Peterson says, reaching out for me.

I shove his arm away and go to McMahon who suffered burns all over his body. A life vest kept him afloat.

"We gotta get him away from here," I state, pulling a strap of the life vest. "You alright son?"

"Me?" Peterson asks, eyes wide.

"Yes you. You got burns?"

"Oh yes sir. They really hurt if I'm going to be honest. Oh God."

"Keep it together, sonny," I put the strap between my teeth. It tastes of boat oil. "Let's move."

Together we rendezvous back to the rest of the crew, Peterson releasing exclamations of pain through gritted teeth.

"What's the plan, boss?" Maguire questions.

I spit out the strap and check McMahon's pulse. He's still here, though unconscious. I look about the crew. All brave faces in the late summer Pacific, despite knowingly being in the throat of danger. They're looking to me for an answer. They expect me to know the path, to show the path, and to take the path.

"I want you all to take a vote."

The crew looks about each other, confusion marking their expressions.

"There's nothing in the book about a situation like this. A lot of you men have families and some have children. What do you want to do? I have nothing to lose."

The crew look about each other again, the same look of confusion. Pain creeps its way up my back. The collision fucked me up good.

"Boss," a voice says. "We ain't surrendering if that's what you're getting at."

Voices all around me agree.

"There's a small island three miles from here." I offer.

The voices agree again and I smile.

"So let's go."

* * *

Bullets plant themselves into the brick alley walls around me.

Sirens blare.

I run towards the light.

Left here, right there, left, right, right, left. The alleys is a maze; a labyrinth. _Up here I'll make another left_. I misjudge the distance and have to turn so hard I lose my balance and tumble into some metal garbage cans. I curse myself and my back problems.

Up ahead though, I see light. An opening. A streetlight? I cling to the wall to bring myself up, a thousand mallets performing a song on my lower back. I try to run again but the song gets louder. I'm forced to stumble towards the light like an Old Folks' Home resident on spaghetti Tuesday. _Motherfucker._

I'm almost there. At a distance, running feet. _Ah hell. Come on, you've gotta go. You've gotta._ Feet run in the far end of the alley. _Dammit dammit dammit._

I'm there.

I was right, a streetlight. Quickly I strafe to the right in hopes that the feet don't see me. I scoot my way under the awning of a store. It's a little flower shop, closed this time of night. A sign on the door reads, 'Daisy's Flower Shop'. _Hah. Guess some people are put onto this Earth with a predetermined fate._

I roll my dice and jiggle to door handle. Locked. _Dammit._

From far down the street I hear a scraping noise. Metal on asphalt, like driving a car with no tires. I turn to face it. Three stores down, a great Metallic Hound stares me down. A huge grin adorns its manufactured face. _What in the hell._

I was discharged back in '45, I never saw anything like this. Back in April though, I heard rumors of a great metallic scourge tearing through the remnants of the Red Army. Panzerhund was the name.

It releases a growl reminiscent of both a steaming factory pipe and the grinding of metal on gravel. The beast charges towards me. I draw my pistol and switch the safety off. My eyelids force themselves shut.

 _Joseph? Big brother? Can you hear me? I wonder what heaven is like. Will you help me find my way?_

 _Kirkskey? Marney? Friends. Crew mates. Do you copy? Sorry I could not save you. Sorry I was not strong enough. I'll see you soon._

 _Mother, Father. My brothers and sisters, friends and family on this Earth. It's my time to go. I love you. I'll watch over you._

The scraping of metal on asphalt is so close. My pointer finger is fixed to the trigger.

A voice pierces the air.

"Sofia! Halt!"

The beast grinds to a stop and miniscule pieces of asphalt scrape my bare legs. I look to my savior. A Nazi in an officer's uniform, armed with a flashlight and a pistol. He shines the light in my face. Squinting, I struggle to see who else is there, but I spot two armored scum at his sides, carrying rifle models I've never seen. At his far right, passed the right side armored Nazi, stands a police officer, arms behind his back.

Something about the policeman seems familiar. _Do I know this man?_

Flashlight Nazi approaches me. "John Fitzgerald Kennedy. You have definitely got as much fire as they say you have. And might I compliment your boxers? My wife back in Berlin got me a German pair for my birthday. Now according to the records, you have a disorder in your lower back which gives you chronic pain. Is that true? Is it also true that you have not been to the doctor since your discharge?"

I'm not focused on his words. I'm focused on the policeman who's face I struggle to make out. _I swear I've seen him before._

"Mind you, I do not speak to offend. You have a gun in your hand though, so I must be cautious. How about you hand that piece over and we can sit down and talk this out. You a beer man, Kennedy? Come on, hand it over. It is not your service pistol is it? Browning M1911, .45 caliber, eight rounds."

I swear I can make out little blonde stubble at his chin. He's skinny, his bones jut out and give his face a pale, hollow look.

 _Wait. No. It can't be._

"Peterson!?" I exclaim.

Flashlight looks at the policeman, then to me, then back at the policeman. "Peterson, do you know this man?"


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys, sorry it's been a few months since I've uploaded a new chapter. I haven't had the most time on my hands if you get me. Also, I think I've been so captivated by my own story to write about somebody else's. Anyways, I'll try and keep at it. You might see chapter four soon, might not, we'll see how it goes.

Enjoy!

**P.S - I just figured out that I suck at editing my stories. Bear with me

* * *

 **III**

All is quiet except the purrs of the Panzerhund. She stands within arms' reach of me, her nonexistent eyes piercing my soul. One word and she'll rip me apart. My knees tremble from fear, adrenaline, and the cold. It starts to snow.

"Peterson," Flashlight says. "Do you know Mr. Kennedy here?"

Peterson shuffles forward. He scratches his chin and says in a monotone voice, "Yes I believe I do. We were on PT 109 together. I was not aware Mr. Kennedy was still a resident in Boston."

Flashlight forms an O with his mouth and looks back and forth between us. He holsters his gun and his flashlight and throws an arm over the both of us. His breath smells of spearmint gum.

"Ah a merry reunion for a merry Christmas! Fantastic!" In a swift motion, he tugs the pistol from my hand and steps away from us. "Stand with your head against the wall, Kennedy. Go on."

Outgunned and ungunned, what can I do? I set my forehead against the brick wall of the flower shop.

There is chatter amongst the team. All are not focused on me. I consider slipping away but almost as if she could read my mind, Sofia releases a growl. I stand perfectly still like the good little captive I am. _Fuck me_.

Adrenaline fades away as I rest on the wall. The damned back pain returns. Bending forward never felt good on my back but there's no chance in hell I'm moving while Sofia's watching.

Eventually, Flashlight slaps my back. I release a groan.

"Mr. Kennedy. I have allowed Peterson to converse with you privately but with the promise that afterwards you would come with us willingly. Understand, Kennedy?"

Not having much of a say, I nod.

"Excellent."

And so we travel down the sidewalk, Flashlight at 12 and Sofia at 6. Peterson assists me in traveling. A strange sense of deja vu and irony washes over me. I haven't seen this man in years and now he's assisting the Nazis. Maybe he joined the police force after his service and he's doing this under orders. God, I hope my old comrade isn't a fucking Nazi. What does he plan to say to me when we have our private talk? Can I trust him? To which America does he protect and serve, ours or theirs?

I've always found snowfall to be particularly beautiful, especially at Christmas time. Touring a snow covered Boston with a long lost comrade on Christmas night. Sounds like a good time right? No, nope, it's not. Why is it not a good time? Fucking Nazis, that's why.

Flashlight draws to a sudden halt, holding his right fist in the air. Slowly he turns to the right, holding his silence until we all peek tot the right. It's some small street-side bar named Roth's. Flashlight grins and nods. "Roth's… Yes. Yes. Sounds German to me. Very well."

He has the soldiers check the place out first. They break the glass with a rifle stock, then sweep the building. All clear.

Flashlight strolls into the bar, arms outstretched like he owns the place.

"Not very large, no. But eh… what's the word I'm looking for? _Urig._ Yes, quaint." He says. Flashlight swings himself over the counter and reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniels atop a shelf. "Peterson, there's a storage room in the back. Go on, be acquainted with your companion."

Peterson wordlessly begins walking me to the room.

"Oh," Flashlight interjects. "Am I forgetting something? It is very late. Oh yes, your piece. Leave it here."

Peterson slips the revolver from his holster and sets it on the round table closest to us. We then step inside and close the door.

There are metal shelves storing boxes across all four walls, and a spare round table and two spare chairs in the center of the room. At the very top of the wall opposite the door, moonlight gleams through a foggy window. I take a seat at the chair furthest from the door, closest to the window.

"So?" I speak.

Peterson nods, standing wordlessly.

"What'll you do know, sonny? I don't see you in three years and now you're doin' rounds with fuckin Nazis?"

He narrows his eyes. It could mean many things.

"Why, Pete? All I ask is why? Do you remember the island, Peterson? When we swam all that way and we finally got to that damned island? We were all exhausted on that beach and you asked me those questions. Do you remember that, Pete?"

Peterson nods again. We sit in silence for a good ten seconds. "I remember."

* * *

My skin burned.

My teeth ached.

My spine felt like it'd been shattered six times over.

But we finally made it to that damned island.

"Well I'll be, Lieutenant!" Peterson hollered. "I was starting to think we'd never make it!"

He swam ahead of me and put his feet in sand as soon as his legs felt something solid. He outstretched his arms towards the sky and hopped around for a little while until his legs gave way and he collapsed in the dry sand. He couldn't stop laughing that happy, relieved laugh.

The other guys made it before me. Some of them laughed. Some of them cried. Most were silent, too fatigued for any further exertion. A couple guys helped pull McMahon and me in. Everyone with a hint of medical skill tended to McMahon and I lied there resting face down in the sand. I'd have to get up eventually. I'd have to check out the island, search for life, for food, water, all that. Our mission was far from over, but for now we rest.

I'd always had issues with my back since I was a little boy, but nothing as bad as this. My spine was in incredible pain but my legs? They were growing more numb by the second. I wiggled my toes for as long as I could but eventually I couldn't anymore. Couldn't wiggle my toes, couldn't lift my leg, couldn't bend my knee, nothing. I rolled onto my back and looked about my crew. They all had so much hope. I couldn't tell them that their Lieutenant couldn't walk. I couldn't kill their hope.

I looked above to the sky. The sun was starting to rise. The blue sky, pink clouds, and orange horizon mixed so perfectly. It was beautiful, maybe one of the most beautiful things I'd ever see. A large grin sprang from my cheeks and an overwhelming sense of calm washed over me. This would be a good place to die.

Feet in sand approach my location and then plop right down next to me.

"Hey Lieutenant?" An easy voice says.

"Yeah, Pete?"

"Sure is beautiful isn't it."

"Yeah, Pete."

"I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for getting me this far. I know I'm not the most capable man in our crew. Hell, the amount of things I can't do outnumber what I can do by a longshot."

"It's good to have you on the team, Pete."

We're silent for a good minute.

"Why are we here, Lieutenant?" Pete asks, the easiness in his tone slipping away.

"Come again?"

"Why are we here?" The easiness in his voice is replaced with a hint of frustration and urgency. "You, me, all of us."

"Ain't no one answer, sonny. Some might say we're here to defend liberty. Some might say we're here to fight fascism. If you're a believer, you might say you're here because God wants you to be here."

"But what do _you_ think, Lieutenant?"

I don't say anything.

"You don't know, do you, Lieutenant?"

More silence.

"You're goddamn invincible, Lieutenant. You didn't just carry McMahon through those shark and Jap infested waters. You carried the weight of the world too. I can see it in your eyes. You'd swim a thousand miles, and I bet you have before, but would you or have you ever asked why?"

Silence.

"Ever hear that quote by Socrates? The unexamined life is not worth living?"

"Where are you going with this, Pete?" I'm growing tired of his rhetoric.

"Why are you here, Kennedy? Why do you fight? It's these questions you have to ask yourself, or else your life isn't worth living. I've been asking myself these questions a lot lately, and I don't like the conclusions I've drawn. I'm not here because of some personal grievance with the Japanese or fascism or Hitler. I'm not here because of patriotism, or to defend the rights of people to live their own lives, or any other spoon-fed bullshit. They just keep pumping all these ideas into our heads until we're forced to believe them. If I had stayed home, I would have been vilified by my family and my town. Now I'm here, launching iron into kids who are just like me, same predicament, same problems, maybe even the same thoughts, but just a different uniform. I'm not here for any other reason but force."

The silence returns so thick that I think I can reach out and touch it. It lingers.

"Peterson?" I finally speak.

"Lieutenant?"

"Go."

Peterson gets up, dusts himself off, and turns to leave. He stops, however.

"You still haven't answered me, Lieutenant. You've stayed silent, and there is no more powerful cry than silence."

I stayed on that beach and the silence stayed too. It stayed with me for a very long time.


End file.
